


Someday, Buddy

by staples



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Buffalo Sabres, Character Study, Developing Relationship, Internalized Homophobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-06-10
Packaged: 2018-11-12 08:55:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11158491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/staples/pseuds/staples
Summary: Choices have consequences. That isn't necessarily a bad thing.





	Someday, Buddy

**Author's Note:**

> Another WIP folder clean-out piece. I wrote the vast majority of this two years ago, and two things have happened since then:
> 
> 1) The video that prompted this and gave it _any_ context has been wiped from the internet. [This fossil](https://lockerdome.com/buffalosabres/7838103553454100) is the only proof I have that it existed at all. A summary: Giorgio is the guy on the far left, a Good Canadian Boy who listens to Drake. Will is the third guy from the left, an embarrassing American who thinks country music is superior. They learned this about each other while rooming together during Dev Camp. This takes place around that time frame.
> 
> 2) The Sabres have decided against signing Giorgio.
> 
> The only explanation is that the Buffalo Sabres are a hellish organization solely focused on hurting me in new and inventive ways. Still, I liked the bones of this enough to to give it a quick spit shine. The title is from "I See a Darkness" by Bonnie "Prince" Billy, which I was listening to a lot when I first started working on this.

Will doesn’t hear himself get drafted.

He wakes up in his own bed at six and wonders if he got his timezones confused. Draft starts at nine; did it start at nine EST or CST? Either way, he should have some more time to sleep. He’d only planned on waking an hour earlier, to eat breakfast and maybe call his adviser one last time.

He stares at the ceiling for another fifteen minutes before determining he isn’t going back to sleep.

Mrs. Borgen, Lori, jogs in the morning. Usually, she leaves, returns, and is ready for the day before Will wakes up. Today, Will stumbles down the stairs and meets her at the front door. She assesses him, in his ancient Burns shirt and ratty boxers, and says, “You want to join me?”

Will tugs down the hem from where it’s ridden up his leg. “Yeah, actually. Uh, let me go change first,” he responds, embarrassed.

“I’d hope so. Don’t forget to stretch.”

He runs upstairs and throws on his standard work out attire, trainers and his cleanest Spuds shirt, then doubles back when he remembers deodorant. Lori is a speck at the end of the driveway, and Will jogs out to meet her.

“Did you stretch?” she asks.

“Yeah,” he says, hands on his hips, rising on his toes. Lori looks at him, and Will sighs. He does his lunges and leg swings while she fiddles with her iPod. She’d gotten big into audiobooks when Will had lived in Omaha for a few months.

Lori directs a fairly predictable run: into town, through the park, around the lake, and back to the house. It’s nice. Calm. Relaxing.

Once they circle back onto their street, Will says, “Mom? Mom, I’m gonna go ahead. Okay?” Then he’s running, sprinting full speed past the trees and barn and pastures until he can collapse onto the front porch. It’s still early enough that the cement feels cool against his cheek.

The burn in his thighs has dulled to a prickle by the time his mother strolls up to the house. She pauses next to him. “It’s alright be nervous, you know.”

Will takes a moment to catalogue himself, past the slight stitch in his side. “Nah.”

Lori sighs. “Alright. Your father’s making pancakes, don’t stay out too long,” she says before going through the front door.

He stays there until the pebbles digging into him become too uncomfortable and Jae sticks her head out to say, “Come on, baby bro, or I’ll eat your share.” He sighs and pulls himself up, stretching the stiffness out. Jae crinkles her nose when he squeezes by. “Smelly.”

Will eats his breakfast. “I think a couple of the boys are coming over, too,” he says around a mouthful of pancake and whipped cream.

“How many?” Mr. Borgen, Bill, asks.

Will shrugs. Bill sighs and pulls down the big mixing bowl, generally reserved for salads during family reunions. It’s quiet for a moment, except for Bill mixing up another batch of batter.  “Hey,” he says eventually. “You’re going to do great today.”

“I’m not doing anything today. I’m just watching TV and eating,” Will argues. He’s not a superstitious guy, not really, but the  _ assumption _ makes something in his stomach clench. Reflexive humility, he guesses.

“I am proud of you and I love you,” Bill says over him. It’s a little embarrassing, and Will strains to hear the  _ click _ of someone inviting himself in. “Even if Dallas is the team that bites.”

“How about Chicago?” 

“Don’t push your luck, kid,” Bill grunts, and Will laughs. Bill claps a heavy hand on Will’s shoulder, and then he’s back to the pancakes.

A text from Will’s adviser tells him not to hold his breath until late in the third. Still, he rushes through showering, and is in front of the living room TV, wedged between Alex and Trey, by the time Jeremy Roy gets drafted. The boys had clearly let themselves in awhile ago, sprawled easily over Will’s furniture and floor.

“I don’t know why you made us come over so early, it’s not like you’re going this round,” Grant complains, because Grant is an asshole. 

“Cocky,” Ryan adds. Lori tsks from her chair, very quietly.

“Sorry, Grant,” Will says. 

“Don’t insult my family’s hospitality while you eat our pancakes,” Trey says, leaning over Will to glare at Grant. Will pushes his head out of the way of the screen, then drops his hands when the motion looks too much like he’s pushing Trey’s head into his crotch.

“I’m telling Mrs. Greene you said that.”

It goes on like that. Some part of him appreciates the nostalgia of sitting around, in this room, chirping each other for hours with the NHL Network playing in the background. Today, Will turns up the volume. Not that it does him much good. 

The later rounds go a lot quicker, not that it matters much. The talking heads are lagging behind, talking about one pick for every dozen.

“I’m just saying,” Will says. “You would think these guys would actually cover the draft.”

“What, do you think they already skipped over you?” Trey says.

“ _ Cocky _ ,” Ryan repeats.

“No, I’m just saying, the people want to know who’s getting drafted, not their opinion on Connor fu-reaking McDavid for the tenth hour straight.”

“So you think you’re more important that Connor McDavid, Will?”

Will is still defending his modesty when the fourth round starts. The 92nd pick is called.

“ _ Holy shit, _ ” Jae says.

“Jae,” Lori chides. All heads whip around to the TV. Will Borgen, of the Moorhead Spuds, to the Buffalo Sabres. 

“BUFFALOOO!” Alex screams as he tackles Will off the couch, and then there’s a lot of screaming as he’s crushed under the weight of four hockey players and his sister. The mass pulses, hands in his hair and pulling at his shirt and shaking whatever they could get his hands on, everyone thrashing with joy. Will feels like he could burst. He just got  _ drafted.  _

“Oh my god,” Will wheezes. “My phone’s ringing, let me up.” They stop squirming long enough for him to squeeze his phone out of pocket, and the screaming is minimized to hot breath on his neck. Will’s distracted during the call, the room still boiling with excitement. He says thank you a lot, that he’s very excited, he’ll see the team in a few weeks. Then he hangs up. 

They scream again.

Eventually, Lori drags him out of the pileup. “Let me see my son, yes, thank you,” she says, and then she squeezes him close. “I’m so proud of you. You’ve worked so hard and it’s all led to this moment, and I am  _ so proud.  _ Now get these ruffians out of my house, please.”

They stumble out not long after, and head to the river. Grant brought weed (brought it into Will’s  _ home, _ because apparently he has a death wish), Jae’s old enough to supply the alcohol, and it’s one of the best days of his life. He just got drafted. He loves his friends. He loves his family. This is the way things are meant to be.

Will misses G-i-o-r-g-i-o Estephan getting drafted two rounds later, 152nd overall.

 

* * *

 

In baby photos, Will has a splattering of gray smudges across his body. They could’ve been confused for bruises, if you didn’t know better. Lori says he used to have seven, flickering right along with his childhood whims, but Will doesn’t remember them.

Will’s first memory is of an outdoor rink at a ski lodge, the cold, his aunt holding his hands so he wouldn’t fall. Retrospectively, they couldn’t have been going very fast, but Will felt like they were  _ flying, _ the whole world glittering white and beautiful, wind whipping at his face.

He’d loved it, more than anything.

After, Will rambled on—could they go out again, could he skate at him, could he play real hockey now—while Aunt Karen freed him from the abundant winter layers. She’d hummed along politely, but after taking the mitten off his right hand, she let out a soft, “Oh.”

“What?” he asked.

She turned over his arm to show him the delicate inside of his wrist, and the deep black smudge in the center. It hadn’t been there that morning, or at least not as prominently. “Oh,” he echoed.

His aunt had laughed, and hugged him. When his parents and brother and sisters got back, Karen made a point of calling out, “Lori, come look at your son.”

“What’d he do now?” Lori responded. Karen laughed, and Lori had sighed and taken her sweet time coming over to the couch, where Will was trying very hard not to nap. Lori stood in front of them, a  _ Well? _   heavily implied. Karen rose Will’s arm silently.

“Oh,” Lori said, surprised, before taking Will’s arm. She runs a thumb over Will’s wrist, then drops his arm to pull down the back of his shirt. Will watches Lori through drooping eyelids,  her face serious yet gentle. “Hm.”

“Wazzit mean?” Will asked.

“Just that you’re a little bit closer to finding your soulmate,” she said warmly. “Your future wife, Willy! Isn’t that exciting?” It was, Will guessed, still preoccupied by thoughts of ice and flight. He fell asleep happy.

 

* * *

 

The Sabres have the prospects set up in some local college apartments for development camp. They’re nice; four singles, with a kitchen and living room. Will hopes someone thinks to bring a Play Station, then he figures they won’t have time once things get going.

Still, it’s slow that first night.  

Will is playing cards with Max and Tony, his other roommates, when the door rattles. He glances up, and his heart  _ throbs  _ before the other boy can even make it all the way through the door, before Will can see the line of body tape low on his neck, before he can introduce himself as Giorgio in a voice that can only be described as  _ soft _ .

Giorgio. Will did read about him, after the fact. WHL kid. Lethbridge. A forward, center specifically. Pretty quiet online.

He read a lot about the Sabres in the few weeks between the draft and camp, but maybe he’d spent an extra minute on Giorgio.

Giorgio, standing in front of Will. Giorgio, staring at Will, wide-eyed and expectant. 

Expecting an introduction, maybe. “Oh,” Will says. “I’m Will. Borgen.”

Giorgio blinks. “Is it just Will?”

It throws Will for a second, then crinkles his nose. Not even his mom calls him William, really. “Uh, yeah.”

Giorgio smiles, easy enough, and nods, then goes to dump his bags in the last room available.

Will’s ears are burning. His face is burning. His stomach is cramping. This isn’t really how he expected this meeting to go. If this really is  _ the _ meeting, that is.

**Rooming with Giorgio** , he sends Jae, because he has to tell someone.

She responds quickly.  **Awwwww baby Will!!! Do they have drive-thru wedding chapels in Niagara Falls???**

Will feels like he could throw up.  **Funny** , he taps out aggressively before shoving it in his pocket. He ignores the next buzz.

He’s still stewing when Tony calls out, “Hey, Gio, get back out here. We have enough people for euchre now.” 

Giorgio and Will end up on the same team. They spend a lot of time on strategies, but neither say much. There are many rounds of rematches but they still all turn in early, griping about the horrors they’ll face in the morning. Will is so excited he can’t sleep. And nervous, too.

Giorgio,  _ Giorgio _ , G-i-o-r-g-i-o, sleeping less than a foot away from Will. Through a wall. He feels like he got to do  _ something _ , but what could he possibly do? There’s a feeling in his gut, of the world shifting, sliding together, creaking under the push of fate and Will’s own repulsion. What  _ should _ he do?

Will falls asleep between one possibility and the next.

Camp proves exhausting and exhilarating and painfully cliche. Of course, you don’t play hockey as long as Will has without loving all those things. 

Buffalo has a sticky heat, smells like Cheerios, and isn’t really all that different from Minnesota. The guys aren’t much different, either. There’s guys from all over, guys who play in the CHL or are on their way to college or have already gone pro. But hockey is hockey, and he’d earned his spot same as anybody.  Will gets shit for being a Minnesota guy who played for his local high school, but even that is familiar, in a way. 

Will meets Ivan Chukarov—overage, seventh round, committed to UMass, defenseman, with a wide smile he overutilizes—early, and he proves to be the sort of aggressively friendly that’s handy to have around. The D tend to clump together anyway, and Ivan is a natural glue.

Giorgio sticks around, too. Him and Brendan Guhle know each other from growing up in Edmonton.

Will can’t stop watching him. He gets hypnotized in the morning, when Giorgio’s half asleep and rubbing at his eyes. He’s slow to wake up, awkward and bumbling as he’s hunched over their breakfast: grain, fruit, too many eggs that Giorgio smothers in ketchup. He must get cold, Will notes, because he’s wearing the same oversized sweatshirt every morning.

(Will wonders where got it from. If it’s his, if he took it from someone. Giorgio’s not really a small guy. An inch or two shorter than Will but thicker. Solid. So Will wonders. Probably just his dad’s, Will figures.)

Giorgio doesn’t talk much, and he holds himself in, gripping his own elbow or fingers, biting at his cuticles or the seams of his gloves. Not nervous or awkward, really, just… unassuming, off the ice. Seeing Giorgio on the ice makes it clear that he owns the space he’s in, however much space that may be.

When Giorgio looks at you, his eyes are warm. Warmer when he laughs.

All this Will notices from afar. Even when Will’s sitting right next to him. 

Will’s not sure what he expected from Giorgio. Will expected himself to… handle it better. Be normal. Say the right things. Instead, he sits there with a lead gut while Giorgio eats his ketchup.

When Brendan shows up with two bottles of Smirnoff on the last day, Will doesn’t hesitate.

“What I don’t get, is how anyone would believe this baby face is over twenty-one,” Devante Stephens says, a good way though.

“It’s the foreign I.D.,” Brendan insists. “They can’t even tell if it’s fake or not.” He dodges Devante’s attempt to grab at aforementioned baby face. Him and Devante are both sprawled out on Giorgio’s floor, forming a T. 

“Dude, Canada is literally ten minutes away. You’re not even a Quebecer or anything.” Ivan has claimed the lone chair in the room, along with the dregs of the strawberry-flavored bottle. 

“And we’re in  _ Buffalo _ , they’d recognize their Mr. Fifty-One Overall,” Will says. Will is on the bed, with Giorgio. He’d started the night on the floor, but it’d been crowded. He’d watched Giorgio’s foot swing idly, eyed the curl of his toes, his sharp ankle, up to the swell of his thigh. When it’d been time to pass the bottle up, Will followed it.

Giorgio grimaces when he drinks, squinted eyes and hissing. Flushed cheeks. Will tries not feel like he’s in middle school when Giorgio passes the bottle back.

“You’re a fucking superstar, Guhle,” Will finishes. 

“You can just not drink my vodka next time, Will.  _ And Devante _ ,” Brendan adds, jerking away and scowling when Devante’s fingers slap over his mouth.

“There were, what, seventeen thousand people at the scrimmage today? That’s like… that’s a lot. It says a lot,” Giorgio says earnestly, ignoring or unaware of Will’s sarcasm.

“For Jack,” Will says, because he can’t help himself. He looks over and realizes that him and Giorgio are sitting close, closer than Will intended.

“Maybe,” Giorgio says. Will can feel it when he shrugs. “He definitely didn’t hurt. I don’t know what your games look like down in Minnesota, but that’s the most I’ve ever played for. It was intense, you know?” 

Giorgio’s eyes are wide, beseeching, and Will can’t help but say, “Yeah. In high school—”

“Ah, back in his good ol’ days of being a Spud.”

“Kid just loves being a Spud.”

“Mr. Minnesota Hockey himself!”

Will glances sideways at the rest of the guys for a fraction of a second. “I lost, actually, but thank you for bringing it up,” he says, before looking back at Giorgio. “Sophomore year, we played at the U’s arena for the consolation tournament, and that was ten thousand. So, uh, yeah, I guess seventeen’s a lot.”

There’s some chirping in the background, about not knowing Miami had a hockey team and college boy math, but all Will hears is Giorgio asking, “Did you win?”

Will blinks, slow. The alcohol has him feeling warm, sloshy inside.  “Yeah, we did. 5-2.”

Giorgio’s face is red. Will’s sure his is, too.  His eyes are tracing down Will's neck, catching on birthmark then settling on the wide, pink scar. Considering. 

Will’s gut twists, and his phone is out and open before he can even think it through. “You want to see how I got it?” he asks, shoving the phone in Giorgio’s face.

Giorgio wide eyes meet Will’s, for a second, before glancing down at the phone. Then he cringes, full-bodied, jaw clenched and eyebrows pinched. “ _ Jesus _ ,” he hisses. He tips away and rubs hard at that black stripe on his neck, pushing solidly at the center. Sympathy pains, maybe.

They’re a mirror image, Will notes.

“Are we looking at Will’s grotesque neck wound?” Ivan says, perking up. Will jerks, remembering the other people in the room.

“I haven’t seen Will’s gross neck wound,” Brendan complains. Will puts his phone in Devante’s outstretched hand and turns back to Giorgio. He doesn’t look particularly traumatized, still thumbing at the edge of his body tape but his face is calm. He’s texting someone. Probably about Will’s gross neck wound.

Will feels stupid. He feels even more stupid when he lies down across from Giorgio. The beds aren’t really wide enough for that not to be awkward, but it felt necessary. Giorgio glances up, then tucks his phone under him after he finishes typing. He’s drunk enough to make the action seem more complicated than it is. He doesn’t act like Will’s being weird, though, even though he is.

“Sorry you think my neck is gross,” Will says.

“I don’t think your neck is gross,” Giorgio argues. “It’s just surprising. There was a  _ crater  _ in your  _ neck _ .” A pause. “Was it a skate?”

“Yeah,” Will answers. “Can’t say I haven’t had plastic surgery anymore.”

Giorgio laughs. Will doesn’t flinch when Giorgio’s hand first touches his neck, but he can’t help it when Giorgio’s fingers brush the keloid.

“Sorry.”

“Sorry,” Will says, simultaneously. “No, I’m sorry. It’s a little sensitive.”

“Really?” Giorgio looks pitying, guilty.

“No, come on, it’s not that bad. Even when it happened. I was ready to keep playing but my coach freaked out, for whatever reason.” Giorgio laughs again. “It just, like, solidified things, you know? If a knife to the neck wasn’t going to make me quit this, what would?”

Giorgio nods, serious.

“My neck was already fucked up, anyway,” Will adds.

“Your neck isn’t fucked up,” Giorgio says, running a thumb into Will’s birthmark. It makes Will pinch Giorgio’s hand between his head and shoulder, but the urge to laugh is shaking his chest. “Stop fishing for compliments.”

Will’s phone is tossed between them, and Will breaks eye contact to check the damage. They sent “I love Buffalo” with a long string of blue and yellow hearts to the top couple of group texts and Jae, along with a series of floor selfies, but nothing that needs immediate action. Will tucks the phone under his ribs, mirroring Giorgio.

Below them, behind Will, there are grumbles about early flights and being secluded on the floor, wishing for their own beds. The door clicks shut behind each of them

Next month, Will moves onto campus in St. Cloud. Next month, he’ll… work these things out. Right now, he’s not thinking about it. Not at all.

The next morning, Will wakes up shirtless in Giorgio’s empty room. He takes stock of himself; not really hungover, but thirsty enough that he doesn’t hesitate to get a water bottle from the fridge.  Giorgio’s stuff is piled up by the door, and the boy himself is sprawled out on the couch. Will grunts out a greeting.

“Hey,” Giorgio says. “Some of the guys were talking about taking the shuttle in, like, an hour, if you want to join.”

“Yeah, actually, that’s perfect. What, are we all on the same connect to O’Hare?”

Most of Will’s stuff is already packed, so it doesn’t take long for him to haul it all out next to Giorgio’s. He plops down on the couch across from Giorgio, offering him the last Sabres sponsored bottle of water. “You hungover?” Will asks, because it seems like the thing to ask.

“No. Might still be drunk, honestly,” Giorgio says. He looks tired but happy, and it hurts Will to look at him.

Will has no clue what to say, and Giorgio seems content with the silence.

The ride to the airport is quiet, too, everyone a little wiped out. They are, as it is, all on the same connect flight to O’Hare. Except for Ivan, who just lives there. They aren’t sitting near each other, and Will isn’t the only one to sleep the flight away. 

They lose Ivan to the wilds of Illinois, then Devante when he has to sprint to the other side of the airport. Giorgio and Brendan are on the same flight to Edmonton. “My flight isn’t for another three hours,” Will tells them. “Please entertain me.”

Waiting with people isn’t all that different from waiting alone. After a week living out of each other’s pockets, they have nothing much to say. They sit on their phones, texting or playing with their apps. Still, Will can’t get himself away from Giorgio, can’t do anything but sit next to him, leaning into his shoulder and watching out of the corner of his eye. They all hug when it’s time to board, the way guys do, clasped hands and a slap on the back. Maybe Giorgio holds on for a second longer, but it does nothing to change him being gone for good a minute later.

Will’s hands start to sweat as he watches their plane take off.

He has to jog to get to his terminal, and he gets there just as they’re calling his zone. The plane takes too long to take off, and he jerks his phone out of his pocket, turns off airplane mode. He agonizes over who to send this text to. He picks Grant, not quite at random. Figures he’ll tell Will what he needs to hear.

> **What if Giorgio really is fucking gay**

Will removes and adds the  **fucking** five times, rereads it, adds a  **?** before sending it off. He slams the phone down on the fold-down table, then grabs it again so he can put the table up when he remembers the flight attendant’s going to make him in a couple minutes.

“Nervous flier?”

Will jerks and glances at the woman sitting next to him. She looks kind, older, like his and all his friend’s moms. He smiles tight, mutters a negative, and shoves his headphones in, feeling like a rotten human. His phone buzzes.

> **HAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAA PERFECT MATCH LMAO**
> 
> **But really thatd be awkward. Watch your ass dude literally**

 

* * *

 

  * The first letter Will ever learns is G.



 

  * Halfway through first grade, Gillian Thomas won’t speak to Will because pressing her lips against his didn’t make any of her marks clear up.



 

  * In fourth grade, when they’re supposed to be learning how to type, Will and Ryan wasted time online, instead. Naming website became increasingly popular as letters starting coming in. “She’s probably just Italian. See, Gior _dana_ , that could be an V, so Gio _vani…_ it’s cool, really.”



 

  * He isn’t surprised by the second _g,_ but he doesn’t show it off, either.



 

  * “Well,” Lori says, rubbing at the crystal clear _Giorgio_ on Will’s wrist, like it’s still just a smudge. “Platonic soulmates do happen, I suppose. Look at those two in Chicago, Keith and Seabrook.”  
  
They’re fags and everyone knows it. _Fuck_ Chicago. “Yeah. Can I just get a wristband, please?”



 

  * It is very prim and proper for a girl to have her name on a boy’s wrist, and for Will to be covering it. For chastity’s sake.



 

* * *

 

Will is woken up at nine,  _ many  _ hours before he would have preferred, by the murderous ringing of his phone. It takes too long to find locate, still in the front pocket of last night’s jeans. It takes him a few tries to answer and hiss into the receiver, “What the fuck?”

“Is Schuldt alive?” Ethan asks tersely.

“... No?” Will glances at Jim, who he can tell, after a few months of cohabitation, is clearly in the denial part of being awake.

“Well, you should get to resurrecting him. We’re having team at the house in an hour and you dumbfucks better be there, or else we’ll have Coach handing out suicides like candy.” The line goes dead.

There is nothing Will wants more than to collapse back into bed and sleep the rest of his life away. His treacherous mouth speaks anyway. “Our captain is summoning us.”

“Fuck Prowsy,” Jim moans. “I’m going to throw up.”

“Well, good luck beating me to the good toilet.”

They survive the morning perils of dorm living (barely) and manage to keep down a poor excuse of a breakfast (again, barely) before starting the trek off campus. St. Cloud’s having a mild winter, but it still  _ sucks  _ in their current conditions.

Their current conditions, of course, being the reason that they have to meet.

“I’m giving all of you a sober week,” Ethan says. Him, his A’s David and Nathan standing in support, and the rookie class are the only guys in the house right now. “The way you guys acted last night was fucking  _ embarrassing  _ for everyone involved. Mostly yourselves, but apparently shame is something that you still need to be taught. I’m not having girls not want to come around here anymore because you’re acting like a bunch of apes, punching holes in walls and shit, or having my senior year tarnished by someone drowning in a pool of their own vomit.”

No one tries to argue for very long. Obviously, there’s no  _ hazing  _ in the St. Cloud men’s hockey team, but sometimes certain expectations had to be met. Will wasn’t even that bad last night, so he tunes the lecture out.

It’s a surprise when Ethan corners him after, and says lowly, “Natalie’s pissed, you know.”

“Okay?” Will responds, surprised. “She’s not my girlfriend.”

Ethan rolls his eyes skyward. “Stop being a fucking asshole, Borgs.”

“I’m not,” Will insists, but he’s dismissed. The rest of the guys wander off, hungover and pissed. They eat, and sleep, and Will even meets with an econ tutor. It’s after dinner before Will gets back to his dorm room.

He has a new follower on Instagram. It’s been happening a lot since he got on campus, which has been great for his ratio, but this one he follows back. The request takes four minutes to get accepted. There’s only one post but plenty of followers; it makes sense for Giorgio to be that well liked.

The post is from today, some blond guy’s selfie with Giorgio in the background, curled away from the camera but clearly laughing, captioned,  **Guess who got grampa Gio caught up with the times!!! #menofinstagram #follow4follow**

The blond guy,  _ Riley, _ had tagged himself. He fishes and hangs out with his boys—who don’t include Giorgio, for the most part—and doesn’t play for Lethbridge. One eye is, like, significantly smaller than the other.

Will likes the photo, then opens his conversation with Giorgio. They’ve texted since Buffalo. Not a lot, but it wouldn’t be weird to text him now, before he seems preoccupied. He writes and deletes a few quick drafts before sending,  _ Hiring a hs kid as your media guy? Risky _

Giorgio takes a little longer to respond.

**Lol**

**He’s kind of my ex but it’s cool**

A painful spasm spreads out from his chest, up his throat and down to his stomach. Will has never been more thankful for the semi-privacy of a lofted bed. He’s not even sure how he responds. Probably another  _ lol. _

To the room, he asks, “Do you guys think I should apologize to Nat?”

“I dunno, what’d you do?” Jim asks, sprawled on his bed. Will is supposed to be imparting the knowledge of his tutor, but it’s not going great.

“That’s the thing, I didn’t even  _ know  _ she was at the party last night. Like, what could have happened? It’s not like she saw me with some other chick and got jealous.”

“When’s the last time you two even talked?” Liz asks from from somewhere below Will’s lofted bed. He likes to pretend sitting at a desk makes him more productive.

“Uh.” Will stares at the ceiling, thinking. He’d skipped their humanities class this week, and she wasn’t at their parties  _ last  _ weekend...

“That might be your issue, bud,” Jim says.

_ “We aren’t dating,”  _ Will insists. They met during orientation, drifted in a friendly orbit, and came together easily. It was never meant to last, though. Just a distraction.

Will huffs and jumps out of his bed. “If I’m not back in half an hour, send help.”

“That all the time you need?” Liz chirps. Will flips him off. 

On the way to Natalie’s dorm, he stops by a convenience store and buys one of the baskets left over from Halloween on clearance. Knocking feels slightly less awkward with something in hand to shove in her face. He says, “Hey. Can we talk?”

She doesn’t appear super thrilled, but she takes the candy and lets him in. Her roommate isn’t there. It’s for the best; Will thinks he’s going to break up with her, if it comes to it.

“So, uh, how was your weekend?” he asks. 

“Fine. I was at the house last night.” She sits on her bed. Will stands awkwardly for a second, before sitting at the desk. Seating in dorms really isn’t acceptable.

“Really? I didn’t see you,” he says.

“Yeah, well, everyone got kicked out when David had his little meltdown,” she responds coolly. Will winces, but it explains how they didn’t run into each other. That was all in the basement. He had been upstairs with a few of the boys. 

“Oh, yeah, sorry about that. Our captain was pissed. He, uh said you were looking for me?”

Natalie takes a deep breath in and says, “I know we weren’t, like, serious, but we’re friends enough that I wanted to say this to your face. We can’t hook up anymore. I found Skyler and she—”

A couple of things cross Will’s mind: gratefulness that he didn’t need to say it, the image of  _ Skyler  _ sprawled down Natalie’s sternum, then  _ shock. _

“Wait, she? Like a girl?”

Natalie shoots him a withering look. “Yes, ‘like a girl.’ Who I am dumping you for.”

Will laughs once. He can’t help it, but it makes her look homicidal. “No, no, no, just...” Will starts before she can rip into him. He’s rolling up his sleeve and sticking his arm out before he can think. His name isn’t  _ that  _ much of a secret, most of his friends know by now, but he can tell she’s coming to the wrong conclusion as he eyebrows rise, comparing it to her situation.

Of course, Will’s the one who started her down the path.

Giorgio’s  _ ex, _ fuck.

Will is an idiot.

 

* * *

 

There was a spring tournament after the high school season is over. It’s lower level, but there were guys from all over. Will represented the great plains and all its glory with pride.

On the East Coast team, there was this kid with dark, curly hair and a wide nose and a big mouth. Kinda short. Him and Will kept catching each other looking.

The hockey world is small. Some guys who live  _ there _ but play  _ here, _ others who are going to play together and know each other from tryouts. It didn’t take long for the Minnesota guys and the New York guys to merge. Their teams stayed at the same Best Western. 

The guy’s name was Ben. He’s loud up close, which Will learned when they happened to sit next to each other on the floor of someone’s hotel room. On Will’s other side was Troy, who got tetchy when people touched him too much (goalies, what can you do?), so he had no choice but to lean into Ben, who didn’t seem to mind at all. After awhile, Will learned they both have older siblings and play of their high schools, even though Ben goes to some prep school in Connecticut.

It was still a little awkward, or maybe just _ tense.  _ Neither said anything in the time it took for curfew to edge closer and one of the older guys on Will’s team to make him go refill the ice. It was his assigned role, as one of the younger guys on the team.

“I’ll help,” Ben offered quickly as Will protested.

“You don’t have to,” Will said. He’d argued more out of principle.

“It’s fine, I’ll come with,” Ben insisted. So they went.

The ice machine was done the hall, next to a few vending machines. Ben got a Mountain Dew. “Your girlfriend is pretty aggressive, huh?” he asked as the machine raddled.

“I—what?” Will asked. He’d dated Gillian Thomas again for a month around Homecoming, but that was forever ago. The confusion faded when Ben’s hand rose to his neck and poked the pressure point. His shoulders scrunched together automatically. “Ah. That’s a birthmark. I don’t have a girlfriend.”

“Oh! Oh, god, sorry.” Ben had a very deep blush, cheeks a cherry red. It was cute, Will thought distantly. 

“It’s fine. Really.” Ben’s hand was still on Will’s neck. He can feel himself blushing, heart thudding in his chest. Ben had very long eyelashes.

It wasn’t quite a surprise when Ben gently tugged Will’s head down. His lips were chapped, but Will’s whole body felt electrified. They stood there, long after the machines went silent, pressed together in a few, hesitant places.

They had an early curfew, and they were young enough that people still cared. A couple of the guys chirped them about being gone for so long. They lied about needing to go to another floor. Will’s roommate snored, but that wasn’t why he couldn’t sleep. He rubbed guiltily at his wrist.

A couple of days later, someone on East Coast sharpens his skate against Will’s neck. So it goes.

 

* * *

 

In mid-December, Will goes home to Moorhead. It’s after the semester ends, during a break from college hockey, and before he has to report to Finland. His family is having an early Christmas celebration, since Will’s leaving. It’ll be nice to see everyone, since this year will be the first that he’s away from everyone the day of.

Before all that, though, the Lethbridge Hurricanes will be playing the Brandon Wheat Kings for the second time this season. The first time they played, Will had been in Denver and still resolutely not thinking about Giorgio. Now, Will knows that Brandon is as far east as the WHL spreads. Five hours away by car.  

It eats at Will. Him and Giorgio have been talking a little more, enough to be friends, and he  _ wants  _ to see him, but enough to warrant a cross-country roadtrip? Justifying it would be easier to justify if Will hadn’t left this thing hanging between between them. 

Will is halfway through telling himself that there could be some other Giorgio with some other mark again when his phone buzzes.

> **How far is fargo from the border? We’re pretty close tomorrow night**
> 
> _ Kind of far to the southeast _
> 
> _ And I am not from Fargo _
> 
> **Damn. Itd be cool to see each other**
> 
> **I know! You’re the one who said it’s nearby**

“Shit,” Will hisses to himself. It’s an innocuous text. Friendly. Giorgio is a friendly guy, who wants to see Will.

Will jumps up from his bed, adrenaline getting him down the stairs. He finds Lori in the kitchen with Mackenzie and Ellen. Before he loses his nerve, he announces, “I’m going to Manitoba tomorrow.” At least, it’s phrased as an announcement. Will’s old enough, has his own truck, but he knows he’s not going anywhere without his mom’s approval. 

Lori stares for a long moment. “Your sister just got in from Minneapolis,” she says slowly.

“I’ll be there and back,” Will begs.

“What is so important in Winnipeg that it should interfere with family plans?” Lori asks, meaning,  _ nothing is important enough that it should interfere with family plans. _

“Brandon,” Will corrects, then carefully says, “Giorgio Estephan is playing there tomorrow night.”

Mackenzie’s face brightens for vague confusion to elation. Lori’s face stays smooth as she repeats, “You want to go visit Giorgio.”

“Yes,” Will confirms, praying his face doesn’t start flushing.

Lori sighed. “Will, it’s the holidays. We’re planning to be together as family—”

It’s a surprise when Mackenzie cuts in to say, “Come on, Mom, my bond took me to  _ Colorado, _ I’ve missed more than a day. Dave and Ellen aren’t even going to be here until the weekend, aren’t they?”

Will wants a hole in the floor to swallow him, torn between agreeing with Mackenzie that it’s the same and having them  _ know, _ or disagreeing and Lori not letting him go. He stands pin-straight as Lori eyes him, until she finally says, “How long is this drive you’re planning? I don’t want you driving that late, you should get a hotel room.”

Later that night, Jae returns home in time to cut Will off in the hallway outside their bedrooms and says, “So I hear you’re having a little roadtrip.”

Will tosses his head back. “Dave is my favorite sister,” he says, loud enough to carry into the guest room.

“I’ve always wanted to see the Canadian countryside,” Jae continues, kicking up Will’s heart rate even further.

“What? It’s  _ Canada  _ in  _ December, _ it looks exactly the same as here. There’s nothing.”

“So it’s a personal visit,” she concludes. _ Obviously. _ “Maybe I want to meet my future in-law. I heard Mom got you a hotel room, we could all hang out—”

“Fuck off, Jae! No!” Will hisses. He’s about seventy percent sure she’s just messing with him, but it’s working, stomach morphing into a hornet’s nest.

A slow smile spreads over her face, and Will braces for the punchline as Jae coos, “What, do you need some  _ privacy  _ with Giorgio? I Googled him awhile ago, he is pretty handsome,” and when it takes too long for Will to respond, frozen where he stands, she leans back, eyes wide, and says, “Holy shit.”

“You have seen Jake every day since you were in middle school. I have not seen Giorgio since July, and who knows when I’ll see him again after this since he lives in fucking Edmonton. So, yeah, I want some privacy, and for my sister to not be a  _ bitch  _ about it,” Will forces out before finally elbowing his way past her. His throat is tight, and it feels like everyone in this house is seeing a big, neon light reading GAY over his head.

Fuck it. Tomorrow, him and Jae will probably apologize in the roundabout way siblings do, and then he’s going to Brandon.

 

* * *

 

_ Everyone  _ found about Keith and Seabrook, undeniably, in 2013, when article after article gets cranked out of the two of them kissing under Lord Stanley. That’s after hundreds of thousands see it live. 

A black hole didn’t form on the Hawks’ roster where they once stood. They kept playing, and acquired kid after kid and kid and kid.

 

* * *

 

Brandon, as expected, is a lot like Moorhead. 

The Keystone Centre is a lot like the Brooks Center, if maybe a little older. The crowd is decent-sized, considering the upcoming holiday, and covered in black and  _ maize, _ probably. Will’s red St. Cloud sweatshirt stands out like a sore thumb. It’s as close as he could get to repping the Hurricanes in such short notice. He hadn’t kept his trip a secret; he likes the thought of Giorgio being able to spot him in the crowd, knowing Will’s there for him.

Will plays defense because he  _ likes  _ defense. Getting the puck where it needs to be is what he loves to do. Giorgio, though, he  _ executes. _ It’s hypnotizing in a way Will doesn’t always care when it comes to offense.

Of course, the period has to end. The barn goes quiet. Will’s plan doesn’t extend to Canada, and he’s been banned from using his phone outside on an emergency. He burns through his battery quick fiddling on his apps, until some kid, short hair tucked up into their baseball cap, chirps him about being lost.

Kid turns out to be an exaggeration. Bree gets much more enthusiastic when she learns Will actually  _ plays  _ to St. Cloud. Next year, she wants to play for a private school up in Winnipeg so  _ she  _ can get a scholarship for university. Her family closes the gap between them, or the rest of game, Will gets invaluable insight into girls’ hockey in Manitoba and a scathing review of the Wheaties’ play as Bree points out signatures on her jersey during breaks in play. 

The game ends with a score at 5-3. Bree’s mood sours but Giorgio gets three points, so Will can’t really commiserate. “Why do you even care about  _ Lethbridge?” _ she grouses as the clock ticks down and the play deteriorates to a game of keepaway.

“I know a guy who plays for them. We got drafted by the same team,” Will says, feeling daring and regretting it when Bree’s critical gaze cuts from tracking the puck to eying him up.

“Nielsen?” she guesses.

“Estephan. Giorgio. Um.” Maybe it’s because he’s feeling daring this month, or because telling some teenager in Farm Town, Manitoba feels miles away from real life, or maybe he just  _ wants  _ people to know, now, Will rolls his sleeve up again and unclasps his wristband once again.

Her eyebrows shoot up. “Oh,” Bree says. “Oh my god, that’s freaking  _ amazing.” _

Bree offers to escort him to the visitor’s locker room, her parents trailing after them, baby brother asleep on the dad’s shoulder. It takes awhile for the team to come out, something Will’s never thought about when he was on the other side of the door. They trickle out in pairs until, finally, out comes Giorgio. He smiles, and it feels like the sun rises in Will’s stomach. Will reaches out, fingers catching and pulling Giorgio in until they’re pressed together head to toe. Stubble catches against Will’s neck, a still-foreign scratch that Will wants more of.

They pull back eventually, knowing they were still in public. “Hello,” Giorgio says, voice as quiet and charming as it was in the summer. It strikes Will dumb.

“Hi,” Will manages, and is spared from having to say anything else when Bree clears her throat. When they both glance over, she’s holding out a calendar and a Sharpie. 

“Can I get a autograph?” she asks. Giorgio smiles at her and takes the calendar without prompting, signing on the date. He goes to hand it back, but she insists, “Will, too, come on.”

St. Cloud has signing sessions after games sometimes, but it’s still surprising. He fumbles for a second before writing next to Giorgio’s tight scribble,  _ Bree— Thanks for the lessons tonight, you’re gonna kill St. Mary’s. WB20 _

She thanks them, then turns to leave. Her mom hangs back for a second, and says lowly, “Thank you for talking to Bree so much tonight,  it means a lot to her. You’re a good kid, best of luck with everything.”

“Yeah, of course, no problem,” Will says, surprised. She nods and walks away.

Will turns back to Giorgio, and it’s corny but Will gets caught up in his eyes, how warm and deep they are. He can’t believe—

Well. First things first.

“My full name is William,” he finally admits.

There’s a nerve wracking few seconds where Will thinks this should have been done back in that apartment in Buffalo, or any moment after that by text or picture, instead of him holding onto this ridiculous notion that their names should be confirmed in person, because what if he’s  _ wrong— _

But it’s just a second before Giorgio nods once and says, “Yeah, I figured, but I mean…” He tips his neck back and to the side. Black marks pop up from just barely under the collar of his shirt.  **W I L L** , printed straight across the middle of Giorgio’s neck. Will swallows as Giorgio tips his chin back and continues, “It was kind of weird for awhile, because it looked like it was gonna keep going, but it just stopped.”

Dumbstruck, all Will can do is stick out his bare wrist and stare at Giorgio’s face, loving every muscle twitch and praying for another glimpse of his name. “That’s nice to see,” Giorgio says, thumbing over his mark on Will.

“Yeah,” Will says, mouth dry. He feels stupid for not having more to say to his soulmate, who is fucking beautiful and has been driving him crazy from hundreds of miles away for the last six months. 

Giorgio doesn’t seem much better off, thankfully, but he’s the one who finally prompts, “I told my coach you were going to be here. He’s a sentimental type of guy, said he didn’t care about curfew, as long as I’m on the bus tomorrow, if you want to get dinner or something…”

“I got a hotel room,” Will blurts out, and then backpedals, flustered. “Or, yeah, dinner sounds great. You know anywhere around here?”

“No! Do you know how far away we are from Edmonton?” Giorgio says, not even managing to pull off the outrage. He seems so  _ happy, _ like he’s just as excited to be in the same room as Will.

“Well,  _ yeah. _ There’s a reason I knew this would be the shortest road trip of the year,” Will replies, and he swears he can see it register in Giorgio’s eyes, how long Will has been planning this.

As it turns out, there are other guys from Edmonton playing in Brandon that Giorgio knows, who tell them where to go for some food. They don’t run into each other there, probably not by accident.

Giorgio does come back to the hotel room. They hold hands in his truck on the drive there. For a second, Will wonders if he’s ever felt things this real, this wholly before, but he ignores the line of thought if favor twisting their fingers together again and squeezing. Will had checked in earlier, so once they’re there, it’s a straight shot up to the room. The hotel manager behind the desk doesn’t even glance up at them.

They barely make it through the door before Will’s twitchy fingers are tugging off Giorgio’s tie, undoing the top button of his shirt so Will can see his name again. It feels natural to surge forward to get his mouth on his mark, the one he left before even meeting Giorgio, and add another on top of it. Giorgio sighs, and it’s a beautiful sound, one that Will needs to taste, so he does, because Giorgio is his  _ soulmate, _ fuck.

Blood is already pounding in Will’s skull when Giorgio pulls back and says, “I don’t want to have sex tonight.”

“Uh, okay?” Will responds, blinking slowly.

“I know we went kind of fast back in Buffalo,” Giorgio says, _ blushing, _ what the fuck, “I mean, I  _ wanted  _ to, but now I—I dunno, it’s just…”

“No, yeah, talking’s fine. Good, even!” It’s reassuring, knowing that Giorgio is just as flustered as he is. Will knows he wasted a lot of time while he was freaking out. None of that is Giorgio’s fault, but there’s a reason Will waited until they could be together again to see if they’re on the same page.

“You want to be together, though, right? Romantically speaking,” Giorgio asks, and for as long as Will put off that question, it sounds ridiculous coming from Giorgio’s mouth. They have their whole, uncertain lives in front of them, but of this, finally, Will is pretty sure.

“Well, yeah. Definitely. Dating sounds like a good start to me.”

“Okay. Well, maybe we don’t need to just talk, then,” Giorgio says, and as much as Will loves watching his mouth move, he doesn’t need to repeat himself. They have plenty of time to work on their communication.

When they wake up, they’re sweaty, sticking together, and probably have horrible morning breath, but it hardly matters. They’re slow to get out of bed, prone to being drawn back together like magnets. “Maybe I can come to Alberta during spring break. After our season ends,” Will says, internally counting down to when he has to let Giorgio go.

Giorgio hums and kisses him again. “Maybe I’ll come down to Minnesota during the summer. After camp.”

Will nods enthusiastically. “The lakes are sick during the summer, you’d love it.”

They’re going to have to figure out what to say to people—fuck, maybe even the truth—and when, and how, but, fuck, maybe it’ll be all be worth it.

 

* * *

 

In the spring, Will gets a DM over Instagram, of all places.

He recognizes the username,  _ stbree _ , which is enough to get him to open the message. It’s a shaky selfie with a shoulder in the foreground, backed by a turned, smiling face. There’s a blurry, grey mark over her shoulder blade, but Will could still make out the start of  _ Kath— _ .

The attached message says:  **Got into St. Mary’s and this cleared up!!!!!! I was lowkey having a shitty season but talking to you made me believe anyone could make it ;)))) TYMS**

Will smiles, takes a screenshot, and sends it to Giorgio.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://mogilny.tumblr.com/) | [twitter](https://twitter.com/yikesave)


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